


That Hospital AU

by orphan_account



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Gen, Hospitalization, I'm Bad At Tagging, I'm Sorry, Minor Injuries, Snark, Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-27
Updated: 2015-02-21
Packaged: 2018-02-15 01:59:24
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,412
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2211492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Hugo hits his head. Hermione takes him to St. Mungo's, and Draco is a hospital worker with very little to do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

In retrospect, Hermione decided, it had been a very bad idea to let the children climb trees in the backyard while she and Luna drank wine on the back porch. They had been celebrating the completion of Ron and Hermione’s divorce, and she’d thought they’d have a lovely time playing in the trees.  
Of course, she hadn’t quite accounted for Hugo’s clumsiness and the special brand of daring that only seems to come from those whose age can be counted on ten fingers. Hugo had slipped and fallen, managing to give himself a decent crack on the head.  
Hermione like to consider herself a fairly competent witch, but she took one look at her son and knew this was beyond her skill to heal. She needed a professional healer. So Hermione gathered her son up, instructing Luna to watch Rose, and immediately apparated to St. Mungo’s.   
Hermione landed in a sea of witches and wizards and began pushing her way towards reception. “Emergency room,” she gasped at the secretary, an elderly witch in blue robes.  
“Quite so,” she replied. “Second fireplace down, dear. And do be quick about it, if you please.” Hermione nodded and made her way to the brick fireplace, tossing in a pinch of Floo powder from a small brass pot before stepping in. She landed a second later, stumbling, and hurried to an identical desk.  
This receptionist (a rather spotty young wizard) took one look at Hugo and pressed a button next to his inkwell, which summoned what seemed to her like a score of healers. They whisked Hugo away on a stretcher and before she knew it, she was quite alone. She glanced at the receptionist, who was clearly trying to usher her into a waiting room. Hermione followed his outstretched hand, flinching as the door swung shut.  
The waiting room was painted a sickly white, and was dominated by two plain looking leather sofas. A coffee machine stood in one corner, an old bookcase beside it. Hermione suck into one of the sofas, elbows on her knees, hands clasped in prayer, and forehead leaned up against her hands. She allowed herself a single, choked sob. Maybe Ron was right. Maybe she was an unfit mother.  
A rustling came from near the bookshelf, and a surprised voice exclaimed, “Granger?”  
Hermione started, then looked up at the source of the voice. A tall, slender figure stood in the corner of the room, coffee cup in one hand, a copy of Les Miserables clutched in the other. Draco Malfoy. Hermione hastily wiped any vestiges of tears from her face.  
His cool grey eyes were wide with surprise. “Granger, what on earth are you doing here?”  
“My son,” she stuttered, then switched gears. “What are you doing here?”  
“I work here,” Draco said, taking a hesitant step towards her. “I just stopped in for some coffee while I’m on my break.” That was right. He was wearing the white coat of a healer. Hermione kicked herself for not paying more attention to the situation.   
He looked good, considering his condition the last time they’d met. Harry had just pulled him out a fiendfyre-filled Room of Requirement, and he’d looked rather haggard from a combination of that and months of being cooped up in a house with Lord Voldemort and his just slightly psychopathic father.  
“How have you been?” she asked abruptly. No, that was not right. She was not supposed to be conversing with the enemy.   
Draco sat down on the other sofa, taking a sip of his coffee. He looked supremely uncomfortable. That made two of them. “Very well, thanks for asking. I had to just through quite a few hoops after the whole,” he hesitated. “Well, you know. But I’ve got it together now. How’s the weasel-er, Ron?”  
Hermione froze. Was she being punished? Hugo gets hurt, she runs into Draco Malfoy, and Ron comes up. “We just finalized our divorce papers this morning,” she said in a brittle voice, and took stock of his reaction.   
Draco paused. “I’m awfully sorry to hear that.”  
She laughed tersely. “Don’t pretend in front of me, Malfoy. I know you never liked him.”  
“It doesn’t change the fact that I think he made a dreadful mistake, Granger. Why anyone would want to divorce you is beyond me.”  
Hermione tilted her head quizzically. This was not right; they definitely despised each other the last time she’d checked. And it was definitely a mutual thing. She could recount in her mind with astonishing clarity all the times he’d insulted her, all the times he’d called her a filthy mudblood. Hermione remembered with great pleasure punching him in their third year. So what was he doing complimenting her?  
Draco continued. “If you need anything at all, feel free to send me an owl.” Then he seemed to realize what he was saying and stared down at his book almost self consciously. No, that could not be right. The Malfoy she had known of old had been full of swagger and pride.  
“Why are you being so nice to me?” Hermione asked before she could stop herself. She was immediately mortified. What a question to ask someone you hadn’t seen in a good decade!  
He didn’t make eye contact and spoke the next sentence in one large breath. “I suppose it’s because I respect you, admire you in a way, even, and I don’t want to see you get hurt.”  
She could almost feel her jaw dropping. What kind of screwed up fantasy world was this? Draco Malfoy, pureblood Slytherin elite, was admitting to admiration for a lowly Gryffindor muggleborn? He had to be joking. He had to. This had to be some kind of twisted joke.  
“You have changed,” was all she managed to say.  
He stood, picking up his book and heading towards the door. “I hope your son is all right,” he said tersely, then exited the room before she could utter another word.  
What on earth had just happened?  
“A week?” Hermione repeated dumbly to the old healer. The man stared down at her, nodding as if she was some kind of lunatic.  
“We would like to keep your son here for an observation period, to be certain he does not relapse,” the man explained.  
“I’ll be visiting,” she said. It was not a question. If Hugo had to be in this forsaken place for a week, she would be in here, by his side, as often as she could manage. Harry and Ginny and all her other friends could watch Rose, would adore having Rose over. And Rose would enjoy visiting with her cousins.  
“That may not be-" Healer Smallwood started, but Hermione silenced his with a look. “Very well, ma’am,” he said hastily. “I will escort you to young master Hugo’s room.”  
And he led her down several anonymous whit corridors, stopping at a door marked 421, then smiled benevolently down at Hermione. Oh, how she longed to whack that smug look off his insolent little face! “You may go in,” Healer Smallwood told her.  
Hermione opened the door and stepped into a small white room with cheerful yellow curtains. At one end of the room was a hospital bed, in which her son lay, listening intently to someone. Two wooden chairs were placed next to the bed, and one was occupied by none other than one Draco Malfoy, who was currently engaged in telling Hugo a story involving a sliced lime, a pile of paper clips, and a lighter.  
Hermione’s eyes narrowed. What on earth was that man doing in here with her son? Didn’t he have something else to be doing? Wasn’t he supposed to be working? Draco noticed her and sprung out of his chair, the paper clips clattering to the floor. “Hermione,” he stammered. “This is your son?”  
“Yes he is, Healer Malfoy,” she said pointedly. “Perhaps you could tell me about his condition?”  
Draco’s manner changed from startled to coolly professional in an instant. It would have been more than a little unnerving if Hermione hadn’t been so irritated at his use of her Christian name. “Would that I could, Ms. Granger, but I am not in charge of Hugo’s case. That would be Healer Smallwood.”  
She could have screamed out of frustration. Doddering Healer Smallwood was in charge of her son’s medical care? “Then what are you doing here?” she asked.  
“I’m assisting Smallwood. I’m a junior healer,” he said stiffly.  
“And how much authority do you have, exactly?”  
“As much as they’ll allow the traitor son of a pureblood Death Eater,” he snapped, then seemed to regain control of his temper. “I am here on a learning basis, and to make your son feel more comfortable.” He looked up at the door and stepped away from Hermione. “Healer Smallwood,” he said.  
The old man came in, shutting the door behind him. “Mr. Malfoy,” he replied. “How nice to see you.” Draco smiled a brittle smile that showed none of his teeth, and Hermione sighed.   
It was going to be a long week.  
“And I’ll leave you in Mr. Malfoy’s capable hands,” Healer Smallwood said, closing the door behind him. He’d put Hugo in a magically induced coma, to prevent re-injury. Smallwood had whispered something in Draco’s ear before he left. She and Dr-Malfoy had practically chased him out with the looks they were shooting each other across the room. Privately, Hermione wondered if Smallwood was lucky to get out when he did.  
“Why are you still here?” she asked. “You said you were here to make Hugo comfortable, and I think you’ve done your job rather well.”  
The brittle smile returned. “I’m to stay here and keep you company. Apparently Healer Smallwood thinks you might go off if I leave you alone too long. What on earth did you do to give him that idea? I’m rather impressed, actually.” Draco took a seat in one of the chairs. “Let’s discuss your son’s medical case.”  
“Oh, by all means, let’s respect each other’s professional boundaries,” Hermione snapped. “Because that’s worked so well.”  
Draco cocked his head to one side. “What is your problem, Hermione? I’ve not done anything to you that I’m aware of.”  
She outright laughed at that. “What is my problem? You show up like a blast from the past, asking me all sorts of personal questions and intruding in my family affairs, and you have the gall to ask me what my problem is?”  
“Okay,” Draco muttered. “I think I found the problem.” He stood. “I can see that I’m not wanted, so I’ll send someone else along to keep you company.” And he walked past Hermione towards the door, opening it in a fluid motion.  
He was halfway out the door when she blurted, “Wait!” Draco stopped midstep, his back still turned. “I…apologize,” she said, the words feeling strange in her mouth. “I lost my temper. Please, will you come back in?”  
Two hours later, and Hermione had no idea that Draco Malfoy could be so funny. Her entire side ached from laughing practically nonstop, and a little smile had split his face from time to time. How had he gotten to this point? The last time she’d seen him, he hadn’t been nearly this stable. What had happened after the Battle of Hogwarts? She wanted to know, but at the same time didn’t want to ask him. Hermione had the feeling he still had quite the temper on him, and she didn’t want to get in the way of that.  
“So, what have you been doing since Hogwarts?” Draco asked, folding his hands attentively.  
“Well,” she started hesitantly, “I went back to finish my seventh year, and then I got a job with the Ministry of Magic. I’m the Minister’s personal assistant as well as consulting in the Magical Creatures Department.” Hermione crossed her legs. “I got married and had Rose and Hugo, and then things just started to go downhill with Ron from there. We divorced, and that pretty much brings me up to now. What about you?”  
“I was on the run for a couple of years until Kingsley Shacklebolt contacted me and told me that I had been pardoned, as my involvement with Voldemort was involuntary. So I came back and I’ve been working my way up here ever since.”  
Hermione bit her lip. “I don’t mean to pry, but whatever happened to your parents?”  
“Oh.” Draco looked downwards. “My father is in Azkaban and my mother moved to Surrey. Some town called Little Whinging. I’ve been down a few times, and her neighbors are absolutely horrid. This skinny nosey woman and this large, very loud man.”   
Just then, Harry burst into the room, hair mussed, glasses askew, and out of breath. “Hermione!” he panted. “I just heard the news about Hugo. What happened?” He looked at the two of them in confusion. Hermione was positioned protectively in front of Hugo’s bed, attempting to shield him with her body, and Draco was standing in front of her, wand out and pointed at Harry. Then Hermione saw who it was and relaxed.  
“Oh,” Harry said. Draco took his cue from Hermione and lowered his wand, eyeing Harry suspiciously. Harry took the opportunity to glance over at Hermione questioningly. She nodded, and Harry came further into the hospital room. “Didn’t expect to see you here,” he said.  
Draco exhaled sharply in what might have been a laugh. “The sentiment is mutual. I’ll let you two talk in private.” And with that, he went out the still open door and disappeared down the hall.  
As soon as Draco was gone, Harry rushed over to Hermione. “Are you all right?” he asked. “Did he do anything?”  
She brushed him off. “I’m fine, Harry. Stop fussing over me. It was actually really strange. He seems so different from when we were all at school. He’s been very…normal.”  
Harry scoffed. “Normal? Malfoy?”  
“That’s what I thought,” Hermione replied. “But it’s true.”  
Harry left two hours later, and Hermione left not long after him. She really needed to get to work before the meeting with the Centaurs. The Ministry was quite close to reaching an agreement with them, and it wouldn’t do to offend them at this stage.  
Day Two  
Hermione arrived at St. Mungo’s at 7:30 precisely and walked into her son’s room ten minutes later to see Draco poring over Les Miserables intently, paying no attention to her. He didn’t look up, but tossed her a bottle of cold coffee. She nearly dropped it, but managed to keep hold of the slick glass container.  
Still, he didn’t look up but turned the page, sighing.  
So she twisted the bottle open, took a sip, and sat down. If he wanted to play the quiet game, she could do that. She’d brought a book of her own to the hospital this morning. Hermione pulled her copy of 1984 out of her purse and barricaded herself behind it.  
A little while later, she looked up from her book, unable to bear the weight of the silence any longer. “Aren’t you supposed to be keeping me company or something?” she asked.  
Draco turned another page. “You seem to be fending for yourself rather well,” he said distractedly. “And I brought you coffee, didn’t I?”  
Hermione slammed her book shut. “Damn it, look at me! At least look at me when you’re speaking to me.”  
“Touchy,” he muttered. “Didn’t know you were so touchy, Granger.”  
“And stop calling me that,” she snarled.  
Draco looked up, meeting her eyes with a disinterested gaze. “Then what, pray tell, am I to call you?” Upon receiving no answer, he returned to the pages of his book.   
Ten minutes later, he left the room, citing a need to check on another patient.   
He did not return.  
Day Three  
When he threw the bottle at her this time, Hermione was prepared. She caught it easily, sat, and took a sip of coffee. Draco was sprawled in his chair as usual, reading more of Victor Hugo.  
“When did you get into Muggle literature?” Hermione asked.  
“When I realized that Wizarding books are actually the worst things I’ve ever read in my life.” Hermione laughed outright at that. Draco set down his book, eyes brightening. “No, seriously. They’re all period romances or non…period…romances. And I really hate romance novels.”  
“So you decide to try Victor Hugo? That’s a bit of a step up.”  
“No, I started with James Patterson.” She stared at him blankly. “This American mystery writer. He’s pretty decent.”  
They spent the rest of the morning discussing Muggle books and authors, and Hermione honestly can’t remember the last time she had so much fun just talking to someone. None of her friends spend much time reading fiction, and she had no idea Draco was interested in it.  
To her chagrin, Ron didn’t come until Day Five of Hugo’s observation period. She and Draco were discussing Centaur policies that the Ministry had been trying to implement when Ron strolled in, arrogant as you please and looking as if he hadn’t a care in the world.  
Until he saw Draco. He hauled the Slytherin out of the chair by the collar of his shirt and practically threw him across the room. “What’s been going here?” he shouted.  
Draco picked himself up, dusting off his burgundy dress shirt and slacks, glancing at Hermione worriedly. Hermione held up her palms in a placating gesture. “Now, Ron,” she said, “Calm down.”  
“What is he doing here?” Ron asked angrily, jerking a thumb in Draco’s direction, his nose mere inches from Hermione’s.  
“I work here,” Draco muttered. “Is that so hard to believe?”  
“Have you been seeing that prat?”  
“We are DIVORCED, Ronald,” Hermione hissed. “I’m free to spend time with whoever I like. And I would appreciate it if you would leave. I have custody of the children, and it’s my decision who they see.”  
“They’re my children too.”  
“Not since you went around the bend and started drinking your problems away. You haven’t been a proper father since the whole Auror debacle. We settled this in a court of law, and I have the paperwork to prove it. If I have to, I will get a restraining order.”  
“Look, mate,” Draco started, but never got to finish his sentence. Ron turned around and punched him, sending him reeling. “One thing I will say for him, he’s pretty strong,” he commented, blood streaming from his nose. “Ouch.”  
“Get out,” Hermione ordered, “and don’t come back.”  
“Bitch,” Ron hissed, and swung a hand forward. Hermione braced herself.   
Draco pulled his wand out of his pocket. “Petrificus Totalus,” he said clearly, and Ron froze on the spot. Then he retrieved a handkerchief from another pocket and placed it beneath his nose, stemming the flow of blood and staining it irredeemably.  
“Thanks,” Hermione said, a little breathless.  
“You’re welcome.”  
They summoned Security, who took Ron away with promises not to let him back in if he came back. And after that, Hermione left for work, leaving Draco to clean up the blood.  
Day Seven-  
Finally. It was Hugo’s last day at St. Mungo’s and Hermione couldn’t have been more relieved. It was past time he should have been out of there. But she couldn’t help but be a little worried about Draco. He had never shown up yesterday, and she wondered if something had happened to him. What was she doing? Worrying about a Malfoy? He was grown up and could take perfectly good care of himself.  
But as she entered the room, a bottle of coffee nearly clocked her in the head. Hermione squawked in surprise, but managed to catch it. Draco stood at the window, looking out at the buildings. “So,” he said. “Last day.”  
She nodded. “Yeah. Thanks for all your help this week.”  
He turned and smiled resignedly at her. “It was my genuine pleasure.”  
“You really have changed,” Hermione said, taking a step closer.  
“I grew up.”  
Hermione bit her lip and started speaking before she could change her mind. “Look, if you want to send me an owl, you’re more than welcome to do that.” Impulsively, she stuck out her hand. He took it, cold fingers wrapped her own, and shook it.  
A week later and Hermione was sitting in her office at home, watching the children playing in the yard. Not the trees though. She’d learned that lesson quite well. She was just about to call them in for lunch when the large Tawny Owl tapped on her window.  
She let it in, wondering who on earth it could belong to. Hermione removed the letter from its leg and opened it, sitting down as she did so.  
Dear Granger, it started.  
You said I could send you an owl, so here I am, doing just that. Don’t think it’s because I crave your company. It’s just that lunch break at St. Mungo’s is so dreadfully boring when no one wants to speak to you because they’re afraid you’ll kill them.  
Weasley came back yesterday. And of course, he came gunning for me. He seems to be under the impression that we were…fonduing. Don’t know where he got that idea. You haven’t been saying anything untoward, have you? But anyway, he tried to punch me again.  
I hexed him. Sorry about that.  
So, I have to stop now, as my superiors are giving me some strange looks from across the room. I guess it’s not exactly normal looking when one is writing notes while cackling gleefully.  
Draco Malfoy  
Hermione chuckled and pulled out a sheet of parchment. Dear Malfoy, she wrote, I am so sorry to hear that your bosses think you’ve gone insane.  
She hoped that she would receive a reply.


	2. Because You Requested It

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A followup to That Hospital AU. Here you go, vibzi.

A/N- Follow up to That Hospital AU. Hopefully it will receive a proper title one of these days. I suppose it could be read as a stand alone if you wanted to be mildly confused.

Draco chuckled quietly to himself as he read the latest of Hermione’s letters. It seemed that Hugo had gotten into yet another scrape with the neighboring children, leaving Hermione to clean up after him as usual. He paused, and then frowned. That was rather odd. When had he started thinking of her as Hermione instead of simply Granger? People would say he was going soft. Worse, people might believe it. 

He took a sip of his tea and picked up another piece of paper containing the many medical forms he had to fill out that afternoon. A middle aged witch had come in to St. Mungo’s with a serious Splinch, and of course he had gotten stuck with her case, as all the senior healers were otherwise busy. In Draco’s opinion (not that anyone ever asked him; they were all terrified they’d get hexed if they so much as looked at him), Splinches were one of the most complex reports in the hospital, consisting of two eyewitness reports, an incident report, and numerous other materials. And by this point, he was fed up and just about ready to set the pile of paper on fire. He closed his eyes and took a deep breath in. 

No. No fire today, no kicking kittens or slapping that bloody idiotic witch even when she clearly needed it because honestly, who tries to apparate somewhere after working for twelve hours straight? You’re just asking for trouble. 

But whatever her name was had done it and Draco had gotten stuck with her and whining about it was not going to do him any good now. He picked up his favorite quill, dipped it in his inkwell, and began to fill out the tedious paperwork.

At the Burrow, Hermione tucked a strand of hair behind one ear and sighed, plunging her fingers deeper into the bread dough. Why had she let Molly convince her to try baking? It was bound to end in disaster, as Hermione was no more a baker than she was, well, a healer! 

“That’s right, dear,” Molly said, peering over her shoulder. Then she took a closer look. “Oh, my. Perhaps I should take a look at that.” She whisked the bowl out of Hermione’s hands and took a look, then tutted.

Typical. She couldn’t even make bread dough right.

At that moment, George and a very pregnant Angelina walked in to the kitchen, arguing affectionately with one another. Behind them, in a similar attitude, Rose and Hugo were bickering, probably about some toy. George looked up and flicked back his bangs.

“Oh,” he said. “Hey, mum, Hermione.”

Angelina glanced over at them in surprise, as if she honestly had no idea there had been someone else in the room. “How are you, Hermione?” she asked evenly.

Hermione smiled. “I’m quite well. And you? How is the baby?”

Angelina placed a hand on her stomach and shifted her weight to accommodate for her unborn baby. “Getting a little heavy. I have a feeling we’ll be making a visit to St. Mungo’s soon,” she said.

She breathed an internal sigh of relief. The entire family had been walking on tiptoe to accommodate Angelina during the last week of her pregnancy. They were gathered at the Burrow specifically for that reason, and it was getting fairly late into August. The children would be going back to Hogwarts soon, and there were only so many more days Hermione could take off.

“Have you thought about names?” Molly asked, fussing over the possibly ruined dough.

Angelina glanced back at George, who was busily breaking up the squabble between Rose and Hugo. Hermione felt a surge of affection for her brother in law at that moment. “We were thinking Roxanne if it’s a girl or Theo if it’s a boy,” Angelina replied.

“Oh, lovely,” Molly replied, looked at the dough, and wrinkled her nose. “You know, Hermione, dear, I think we’ll just start this over. I think I put one too many eggs into it.” She set down the bowl and hurried into the pantry.

Hermione sighed. “I knew I was horrible at baking. Why did I agree to do this?” she asked.

Angelina chuckled. “None of us are good at it. It’s the Weasley Achilles heel, if you know what I mean.” She looked back at George, who had settled the dispute between the siblings and was now telling them a joke. “Well,” she said, “we won’t disturb you any longer, will we, George?” Angelina ended the sentence with a pointed look towards her husband.

George straightened suddenly and put his hands behind his back. “Right. Yes. Certainly.” He followed Angelina out of the room with a wink at Hugo.

As soon as they were out of the kitchen, Hermione turned to her son and gave him a stern look. “Hand it over,” she said, holding out a hand.

Hugo feigned innocence. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, mum,” he said.

Hermione raised an eyebrow, and he reluctantly handed her a small candy with a pink wrapper, the label reading Puking Pastilles. “George!” she muttered under her breath. Up to his old tricks, was he? When she looked back at her son, he was staring at the floor in dismay. Hermione’s gaze softened and she ruffled his hair affectionately. “No harm done,” she told him. “Now run along and play with your cousins.

Hugo grinned and ran off, leaving Hermione and Rose standing in the kitchen. Hermione smiled at her daughter and dusted a leaf off the shoulder of her shirt. “Having fun, are you?”

Rose shrugged. “It’s all right, but I’d much rather be home studying. When is Auntie Angelina going to have the baby?”

She mimicked her daughter’s movement and sat down at one of the chairs. “I don’t know, Rosie. It all depends on when it’s ready to come, I suppose.”

Suddenly a shriek came from up the stairs. Molly came running from the pantry, a sack of flour in her hands. Rose ran to Hermione and clutched her hands around her waist.

George pounded down the stairs, his face dead white. “Angelina’s water just broke!” he shouted. Molly dropped the flour, which exploded in a puff of white onto the floor. 

Hermione looked down at her daughter. “Rose, I want you to go get your brother and use the Floo Network to get to Aunt Luna and Uncle Rolf’s house, do you understand me?”

Rose nodded, her face white with flour. She let go of Hermione and ran outside, shouting for Hugo. “What are we going to do?” Hermione asked. “Can she apparate?”

George shook his head. “She doesn’t want to get Splinched.”

“What about the car?” Molly asked, her voice tinged with hysteria.

“Dad’s the only one who can drive and he took the others and the car for some sort of driving tour. Besides, London’s a ways away.”

Hermione offered a suggestion. “Why don’t we send an owl to St. Mungo’s? They could send a healer here.” They nodded almost in unison, and George rushed about, collecting a quill, paper, and a bottle of ink. He set it down on the counter with more force than Hermione thought was strictly necessary, and began scribbling a note. He folded it neatly and put it I his owl’s beak, then opened a window and shooed it out.

All this happened in the span of about thirty seconds.

Molly sat down abruptly, her face and the front of her clothes covered with flour. “How long do you think we’ll have to wait?”

St. Mungo’s:  
Draco stared at Healer Smallwood. “A home delivery,” he repeated slowly.

Smallwood nodded. “Yes. The owl just arrived. Apparently someone at the Burrow has just gone into labor, and they cannot move that person here for safety reasons. So you’re going to go down there, deliver the baby, and come back as soon as possible.”

“But sir, I don’t even know how to deliver a baby! I mean, I’ve never had to do it before!”

Smallwood leveled him with a stare. “You’ll be leaving in a few minutes, Malfoy. I suggest you prepare yourself mentally.”

“But-“

The older man waved a hand at him. “I don’t want questions, I want results. Now go.” Draco rolled his eyes, but stood and left the office. Why on earth was he being sent for a home delivery? Wouldn’t it make more sense for a matron to go? (A/N-Can you say deus ex machina?)

He headed for the fireplaces, then got a pinch of powder in one hand and tossed it into the fire. “The Burrow,” he said, before stepping into the fireplace reluctantly.

Draco reappeared in a rather dingy looking fireplace in an even shabbier living room. He coughed loudly and stepped out of the fireplace, looking around for another person.

Hermione jumped at the loud crash from the living room. “Do you think that’s-“ she whispered.

George listened intently. “I don’t think it’s a friendly houseguest. I’m going to go have a look. Coming?” he asked them.

Hermione and Molly nodded, and the three of them crept towards the living room. George flung open the door and leapt on a white figure who was standing in the center of the room. It was Draco, Hermione realized with a start. The two of them crashed to the floor in a heap of writhing limbs and exclamations of pain.

“George, stop it!” she shouted. “It’s the healer.” George and Draco disentangled their limbs, all the while glaring daggers at each other. Molly took one look at the three of them and left the room, muttering something about being in the kitchen if anyone needed her.

Draco dusted his coat off and attempted to flatten his hair before skewering George with a glare. “What the hell was that for?” he asked icily.”

George stood, breathing heavily. “What the hell do you think it was for? You and your friends killed my brother and a lot of other good people.”

“They weren’t my friends!” Draco shouted. “You and a whole lot of other people seem to have a lot of ideas about just how involved I was in that whole Death Eater business, and I could honestly care less about that right now. I’m just here to deliver a baby.”

Hermione groaned. “Will you two kindly shut up?” she yelled. They fell silent and stared at her. “Yes? Thank you.” George raised a hand, and she pointed at him. “No. My turn to speak. Here’s how we’re going to do this. Draco, you’re going to go upstairs and deliver the baby. I am going to come with you so that George doesn’t have an aneurysm. George, you are going to help your mother in the kitchen. Any questions?”

Draco raised his hand.

“What?”

“Who’s the baby’s mother?”

“Angelina Johnson.” Hermione glanced over at George, who was clearly dying to say something. She sighed inwardly. It was bound to be something that would start a fight. “Yes, George?”

“You’ll watch him carefully, won’t you, Hermione?” he asked worriedly.

Draco sighed. “Oh, gee, thanks. Way to show your willingness to help a poor victim of society feel welcome.”

Hermione pinched the bridge of her nose. “George. Kitchen. Now. Draco. With me.” She walked forward and started pulling him by the elbow towards the stairs. George retreated to the kitchen. 

“Ow!” Draco protested, and pulled his elbow free. “Why am I not surprised that you’re here, Hermione?” He rubbed his arm and continued to walk up the stairs, stopping at the top. “Which room is it?”

“I don’t know,” she said crossly.

“In here!” Angelina called from through a wooden door. Draco looked about, before pointing in the general direction of her call and heading that way. Hermione followed. Draco pushed the door open and they walked into the room to see Angelina reclining on a few pillows, her face sweaty. “Took you long enough,” she commented. “Oh. Hello, Malfoy,” Angelina said, her voice icy.

He sighed again. “What is that? I do have a first name, you know. And I certainly didn’t have to come out here.” Draco lifted his eyes to heaven. “Kidding, kidding. When did your water break?” he asked.

“About a half an hour ago,” Angelina answered quickly before gritting her teeth in pain.

Draco went into the adjoining bathroom and grabbed a towel, then started positioning Angelina’s legs before placing the towel underneath. He pulled a book out of his satchel and started flipping through it. Draco eventually came to the right page and stopped. He looked up at Angelina. “I can cast a charm that will speed the process up a bit, so we won’t just be waiting.” Then, almost as an afterthought, “And, you know, it won’t hurt as much.”

Angelina inhaled sharply and nodded. Draco handed the book to Hermione. “I assume you have your wand.”

She tilted her head questioningly. “Why am I doing this?”

“I’ve never done this charm before,” he admitted sheepishly. “Actually, I’ve never done a birth before.”

“Then why are you here!”

“I have absolutely no idea. Apparently no one else was free.”

Hermione rolled her eyes and looked at the book, then pulled out her wand and muttered the charm under her breath. “Did it work?” she asked expectantly.

“I think so,” Angelina said through clenched teeth. “It doesn’t hurt quite so much and something feels different. Oh. Oh! That’s quite odd.”

“All right,” Draco said, clearly trying to keep in control of the situation. “You’re going to have to start pushing now. So put your legs up, please, and push when I tell you to. Thank you.”

Angelina adjusted her legs and waited. “Okay. Now.” She groaned and pushed as hard as she could. Hermione took a step back, not wanting to get in the way. Draco turned and motioned for her to come closer, eyes wide. “I can use all the help I can get,” he whispered. “I have no idea what I’m doing.”

Which wasn’t terribly reassuring, now that she thought about it. But she took a few steps closer to the pair.

Half an hour later, she could finally see the baby’s head. “Well,” Hermione commented, “at least it isn’t backwards.”

Draco’s eyes widened. “That actually happens?” But Angelina made a noise and he turned his attention back to her. Draco paled. “Oh, god, there’s blood. Why is there blood?” he shouted.

“I don’t know, you’re supposed to be the healer here.”

“Junior healer!” he reminded her. “Practically only a nurse!”

“Whatever!”

“Can we get on with it?” Angelina interrupted, looking irritable. “I’ve got a baby coming out right now and you two are bickering.”

“Sorry,” they said in unison.

Angelina shook her head. “You two are creepy.”

“Well, isn’t that a fine thank you,” Hermione muttered, but placed her hands in a position to cradle the baby’s head while dabbing at the blood. At that moment, they heard a pounding at the door. “Who is it?” Hermione called.

Molly Weasley barged in and took in the scene. “My, my, “ she said. “You’re doing this all wrong.” She pushed them out of the way and took stock of the situation. “I can handle this myself. All of you go downstairs, and you, Draco, you can go back to St. Mungo’s.”

Draco and Hermione exited the room and headed down the stairs, shamefaced. “Well,” Draco commented. “She’s quite something, isn’t she?”

“My mother in law has quite a forceful personality,” she admitted, “but I thought we did fairly well for ourselves.”

“We certainly didn’t do as badly as she made it out to be,” Draco muttered.

They stopped at the base of the stairs. “So,” Hermione said casually. “I suppose you have to go back now?”

“I suppose so,” he replied. “But not with the fireplace this time.”

“Don’t Splinch yourself,” she teased.

A smile tugged at the corner of his mouth. “Don’t forget to write.”

“Please,” Hermione scoffed. “When have I ever?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So.......that happened.


	3. Gushy Mushiness. I am sorry.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Based on vibzi's thoughts about something else that should happen, sorry it took so long to write...sorry...

Hermione stared down at the letter in her hand, dumbfounded.

Hermione, (it read)

How has your day been? Is Hugo doing all right? He did take quite a fall from that tree and you can certainly bring him back in if he's feeling poorly.

Actually, today is your day off, isn't it? Do you mind if I just pop over. Please say yes. My boss is driving me absolutely insane and i swear if I have to stay here any longer, I'm going to hex the bloody idiot.

Please, please, please say yes. I don't want to get fired. 

Yours,  
Draco

Hermione quickly scribbled a reply on the back of the note. 

Yes, good.

Hermione then gave the note to her owl, which took it in one claw and flew out the open window. "Hugo!" she shouted down the stairs. "The healer is coming soon to have a look at you, all right?"

"Aw, Mum, do I have to?" Hugo replied.

"Yes! Where's Rose?" she asked.

"She's over with Auntie Fleur and Uncle Bill, remember? She said she wouldn't be back for another hour at least."

Hermione sighed. How had she forgotten that? She'd asked Rose to go over a few hours ago, as th two children had been arguing unceasingly and giving her the worst migraine she'd ever had. Something about who got to use the toy broomstick first, she thought.

She quickly checked her hair, which was actually behaving for once, and pinned a few strands of it back. Wouldn't do to be looking less than her best.

"Mum, the healer's here," Hugo shouted, pounding up the stairs and into her study.

"Did you let him in," she asked, "or just run up here to tell me he'd arrived?"

Hugo looked downwards, a little shamefaced. "Sorry, Mum."

She smiled at her son. "never mind, Hugo, we'll go down and let him in together." She led Hugo down to the front door and opened it, unsurprised to see Draco lounging on her doorstep.

He jumped up with a start. "Ah, hello," Draco said, fidgeting with the hem of his coat. "Thanks so much. If I had to stay in that room with Smallwood a minute longer, I think I would have gone insane."

"Well. I don't think I could let that happen in good conscience. Would you like to come in?" Hermione stepped aside as he walked through the doorway, looking around the hall.

"This is a lovely home," he said, then ruffled Hugo's hair affectionately. "Doing all right?" he asked.

"I'm sure it's nothing compared to Malfoy Manor," Hermione answered, leading the way to the kitchen.

"Well, Malfoy Manor was a very musty, dark place," he said, and hesitated, tacking on "as you probably recall."

Hermione froze for a moment, fingers straying to her arm. The first and last time she'd been in Malfoy Manor, Bellatrix Lestrange had carved the word mudblood into her skin. "Yes," she said, her voice like shards of glass. "I remember it quite well."

Draco winced in sympathy. "Sorry."

"It's fine."

"No, really, I apologize on behalf of my family for that. And I'm sorry I didn't try to stop it."

Hermione stopped and looked at him for a moment before replying, "Hugo, will you go put the kettle on please?" Her son rolled his eyes but went into the kitchen. "Really, Draco, it's all right. We were only 17 years old at the time; you couldn't have done anything to stop it."

He laughed dryly. "You're a bit quick to forgive, aren't you?"

"You're not the only one who's done a lot of soul searching," Hermione retorted. "Anyway, we should probably check on Hugo before he burns the place to the ground."

"Right." And so they headed into the kitchen to find Hugo bustling about the stove, trying to compensate for his height (or lack thereof) by dragging a chair over to the cupboard to stand on.

Draco walked over to him and opened the high cupboard. "What kind of tea?"

"Earl Grey, please," Hugo said, and he handed over the box. "Thanks."

"You're welcome." Hugo took the box and set it off to one side, and stared at the tea kettle. "Where's your sister?" Draco asked, glancing over at Hermione as if afraid of what she might have done with Rose.

"She went to see my aunt and uncle," he replied, still staring intently at the stove top.

"And how old are you now?"

"Almost ten."

Draco smiled. "Then you'll be headed off to Hogwarts soon, won't you? What house do you want to be in?"

He shrugged. "I dunno. Mum says it doesn't matter what house I get, but my dad says he wants me to be a Gryffindor."

"Well, you should listen to your mum. You'll do very well in school regardless of where the Sorting Hat puts you."

Hermione nodded appreciatively. To think Ron had told the children he expected them to be in Gryffindor. She'd had words with him afterwards, saying that these were his children too and that she fully expected him to be there for them no matter what happened. He'd stomped off in a huff, George and Angelina apologizing profusely for his behavior.

"What house were you in?" Hugo asked.

Draco's smile froze and he glanced over at Hermione. "Me?" he said. "I was in Slytherin."

At that, Hugo's previously polite interest became genuine. "Did you really sleep in the dungeons?"

"Um, yes. Yes, we did."

"Were you on your house quidditch team? What position did you play? Is the food any good?"

"Hang on, Hugo, one question at a time," Hermione interrupted.

"Sorry," he muttered.

"No, it's fine," Draco replied. "The food is quite good, and yeah, I was the seeker on my house team."

"Wicked," Hugo breathed, eyes gleaming. "I want to be a beater when I'm old enough to go."

"Don't forget, you have to wait until your second year."

Hermione smiled at her son affectionately. "How's the tea coming along, dear?" As he went to look at the kettle, she turned to Draco. "Thanks for talking to him," she said. "Ron hasn't really been...present, and he hasn't been able to talk to anyone besides his sister and I, you know?"

Draco tilted his headl. "I'm sorry to hear that. He's a good kid, and he deserves a father."

Hermione felt warmth rising in her cheeks. "That he does," she said. "That he does."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This probably isn't what you wanted at all, is it, vibzi? Sorry for that as well.

**Author's Note:**

> That happened.


End file.
